


How Long Is Eternity?

by chrissy2



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Dreams, F/M, M/M, Shifting Ages And Timelines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-17 14:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9328610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrissy2/pseuds/chrissy2
Summary: (Originally from my deviantart 2013, when I was 18. There will be eight chapters total.)June, 1999.The one thing Paul, turning 57, did not want for his birthday was to be off tour and going to an empty house for a break, but really, he's too damn old, too damn exhausted to do anything else. He would be alone. His parents were dead, John was dead, Ringo was touring, George touring, all four of his kids were grown up and living on their own - and Linda had passed on the year before. This would be his first year without her.He can't remember the last time he felt this alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From my many stories on my deviantart. This particular story was submitted back in 2013, when I was 18. Please forgive me for my somewhat awkward kid writing, haha! 
> 
> This is ultimately a work of fiction not meant to harm the images of the real-life persons mentioned nor to make money off of.

**June 17, 1999.**

The one thing Paul, turning 57 within a few hours, did not want for his birthday was to be off a tour and going to an empty house for a break, but really, he's too damn old, too damn exhausted to do anything else but want to sleep. He would be alone: His parents were dead, John was dead, Ringo touring, George touring - (hell, they weren't even really friends anymore) - all his kids were grown and living on their own - and Linda had just passed on the year before - breast cancer, like his mum. This would be his first year without her. It didn't help knowing her ashes were scattered all the way around the property containing the empty house.

His bandmates wished him an early happy birthday and although the ex-Beatles weren't there to celebrate, at least they congratulated through email.

He pushed the key in, turned the knob and entered the empty house. As said, he was too damn old, too damn exhausted to feel sad and found himself passing out instantly up in his bedroom. He didn't even both to change his clothes. He just took her sweater off and crashed.

 

**June 18, 1999.**

He woke up around two in the morning. That's when the sadness kicked in. He tried going back to sleep but his thoughts prevented him from doing so. He forced himself out of bed and shivered all the way down to the kitchen. _This damn country and its cold mornings,_ he muttered to himself as he turned the tea maker on.

"Hey, now, we'll have no bitching on your birthday, Macca."

Paul froze.

No, it couldn't be.

He turned around to find John Lennon himself sitting at the dining table. He could not believe his eyes. "John?"

John smiled and stood up. "Happy birthday."

 _"John!"_ Paul exclaimed and attacked his old friend with a hug. He suddenly wasn't cold anymore.

John welcomed the hug, catching Paul when he jumped at him. "Haha! There he is! There's my Macca! I went out of my way to see you for your special day!"

"Oh, I'm too old to celebrate birthdays," Paul said into John's long hair. He still looked exactly as he did nineteen years ago. That's probably because he died nineteen years ago.

John scoffed. "You, old? Never."

After a long hug, Paul pulled away and looked at him. "I thought..."

"That I was dead? Oh, I'm still dead. This is a dream, Macca."

"A dream?"

"Yes, but it really is me. The dream is an illusion, but I'm not."

"So I'm still asleep upstairs?"

"That's right."

"Well, I'll be damned. Well, whether you're really John or not, I like this dream. It's funny."

"Of course, it's me, you nit. You can wake up and have a tea break. I'll still be here when you take another nap."

"I really do want that cup of tea."

"Then go make it!"

"Fine!" Paul joked. "I will. But you better be here when I get back."

At this command, John slipped his glasses down to the tip of his nose. "Promise."

"You better!" Paul then said, and woke up, chuckling at the nice dream.

He made himself that cup of tea and went back to sleep two hours later. Sure enough, John was still there, pacing about his living room.

"Surprised?" John smirked, placing his hands on his hips.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Didn't expect you to still be here. Dreams don't work like that."

"I told you, Macca, I'm not apart of the dream. I'm me. I'm real."

Paul then walked up to him and hugged him again. He did not jump at him like before. This embrace was more gentle, embarrassingly intimate. Upon holding John into his arms, he brought his hand to the back of his head and pulled him even closer. He was absorbing him, feeling his essence.

"So it really is you," Paul whispered, fast tears barely peeking through the corners of his eyes. "You really are here."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you."

Then John heard his old friend sniffling and pulled away to look at Paul's tear-drenched face. "Hey, now, what's all this?"

Paul gulped. "I missed you." He leaned forward and went back to hugging him.

"I missed you too, Paul."

John rarely used his name. His hold around John tightened. "I just want to hold you."

"Is that all you want?"

"Yes."

Paul could feel John's head turn, felt his lips touch his ear and heard him whisper, "If you're going to hold me all day, then can we at least go up to your room and lay down?"

Paul nodded, pulled away and grabbed his arm, leading him up to his room. While walking up the stairs quietly, Paul could feel the arm he was holding gently slide out of his grip and the hand at the end of the arm grab his own hand. They laid down and just held each other for the longest time. Occasionally they would run their fingers through each other's hair, lace their hands together or stroke a cheek. This intimacy was nothing new. They had been like this for years and hardly anyone knew of it. Not that anyone would get it. They had a close bond that very few people understood.

They just laid there, then finally, Paul said, "We don't have to just lay here all night, you know. If you want to, we can go somewhere."

"Would you like to go somewhere?"

"I think it would do me good."

"Alright. Where would _you_ like to go? It is your special day, Macca." And before he could even answer, John's hand covered Paul's eyes and when he lifted it back up, they were somewhere else entirely.


	2. Chapter 2

John removed his hand from over Paul's eyes and he saw that they were no longer lying down in his bedroom. How could he not feel being put back up to stand on his own two feet?

"You look different!" he said excitedly, pointing to John.

"Hey, now, it isn't polite to point."

"You're _younger!"_

And he was: The rough Elvis hair, the leather jacket, the jeans, the white T-shirt underneath...

"Well, yeah, I'm seventeen," John confirmed, smirking. "You've changed too, Macca."

Paul looked down at his hands: They were small, thin and shaking with nervous energy rather than shaking from a chill or exhaustion. Those small hands brought themselves up to his smooth, youthful face and also very rough hair. "How old am I?"

"If I remember correctly, we're back in 1957."

He did the math in his head. "I'm _fifteen? Fifteen-years-old?"_

"Yep."

"Where are we?" he then said, looking around frantically. They were standing in some sort of garden, the sunlight shining on them.

"Where do you think?"

"Should I know?"

"St. Peter's Church!" John smiles. "The fete! Don't you remember?"

Paul's eyes nearly pop out of his head: Of course! How could he forget? Before John could say another word, Paul was _gone -_ running around the garden like a madman, arms out to the side as if to imitate a plane. Within a few seconds, he found the church and the very stage they performed on as the Quarrymen. The setting was deserted, unlike the memory of the day and stage, when there was quite a crowd. "My god!" he exclaimed, jumping onto the stage. "How is this even possible?"

"In your dreams," John simply said, and Paul laughed.

Once at the center of the stage, Paul burst into song and danced around. At first, John just watched him be the happy, hyperactive idiot that he had always been. He sang along from the sidelines until Paul extended a hand to him. "Come on, Johnny!"

John took his hand and hopped onto the stage with him. They sang and danced, recited famous quotes in funny voices and goofed until Paul finally said, "I'm hungry." And as if on cue, they were at another setting within seconds: They were now standing in the middle of the road, in the middle of town, deserted, just like the church, the ice cream store they always went to to their left. "Whoa! God, if only we had transportation like this during tours."

"No foolin'," John countered, following the unstoppable young Paul through the front doors. And just like the church, the stage, the road, the store was deserted too. It was like they were the only two people on earth. All the tables and pastries and ice cream were still there.

Paul pointed to the freezer behind the counter. "So...I could just...?"

John smiled, adoring his excitement. This calm and collectiveness about this dream John was something the John he knew never had. "Yep."

"Ice cream!" Paul exclaimed as he ran around to behind the counter and started scooping up some chocolate ice cream in a bowl. The unusually calm and collected John was right behind, gathering up some strawberry ice cream for himself.

"Do ghosts get hungry?" Paul asked.

"How many times have you actually eaten because you were hungry? I just do it for the taste."

"Ah."

They gathered their bowls and sat down at a small table beside the window, the empty store to their left, the empty roads to their right outside. Although this was only a dream, Paul could still feel the warmth of the sun through the glass, could actually taste the sweet chocolate of the cold ice cream.

"I still don't understand how all of this is happening," Paul then said. "But I like it."

"You still think I'm just an illusion?"

"You could have been created from my memories of you."

John nodded. "It's a good theory. Reality is an illusion too."

"How do you reckon that?"

"Physicists have actually considered the possibility of everything in the universe being nothing but an illusion."

"I'd like to think of it as everything in the universe, including our dreams, being a reality."

"Good answer. You know what, I like that. So how many years has it been since I was shot?"

Jesus. How the departed asked such a question so simply was beyond Paul, to the point of being both incredulous as well as humorous. "Nineteen years."

"Nineteen years, really?"

"Yeah," Paul nodded. "And here's a thought: Why wait nineteen years to see me? Huh, huh? What the hell?"

"Haha, I was busy."

 _"Busy?_ You're _dead._ What could you _possibly_ be doing?"

The departed laughed and shrugged. "Afterlife, man."

"So even the afterlife has rules and regulations."

"Yep."

When Paul swallowed the last scoop of ice cream, he pondered, "Hm. Where do I wanna go next?"


	3. Chapter 3

Paul woke up a second time, his second break; his cell phone reads eleven AM. The only thing he physically ingested that day was a small cup of tea, possibly some kind of biscuit; he did not remember. But he should have been hungry by now. Should have been. Had all that ice cream filled him up, or did his mind _think_ it did? Eh. He was thinking too much. He gets out of bed and heads downstairs.

**[THIRD DREAMING: 1PM. SETTING: An empty beach overlooking a sunset; ages 38 and 36.]**

Paul looked around until he spotted John standing by the rolling waves. He smiled and rushed down the sandy hill to join him. It wasn't until Paul reached him that he saw the sadness in his face, making his own smile melt. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure. I just...just now, I sensed something bad."

"What was it?"

There's a long pause before John finally finds the words: "Something bad happening to one of you three. Honestly...I feel something is going to happen to George."

The words sent a strange sting through his entire being, the sting of that unpleasant macabre. It makes apart of him feel very sick and Paul can barely squeak out the next word: "What?"

"I may be wrong. But I can't stop this horrible feeling."

Another pause, another pass of the feeling of hurling, and Paul continues, "What do you think is going to happen to him?"

In a way, Paul already knew the answer but denied the dreaded words until he heard them spoken from the departed itself. "He's going to die soon."

"George had cancer - in his throat - the year before. But they removed the tumor. Will it come back." _It did for Linda. It **always** came back. Doctor after doctor after doctor, thousands of dollars spent and it still wasn't good enough to save her._

"Probably," John answers. "It was not anything horrific, so yes. He will most likely die from something subtle, natural, an illness."

Neither of the two looking at the other, and all that could be heard was the crashing waves, the water slowly making its way closer and closer to their feet.

"Will he suffer?"

"Like I said, it was not horrific. There was not too much suffering."

"If he is going to die, I hope he isn't in too much pain."

"So do I."

Another silence, then Paul chuckles.

"What's funny?" John asks, finally turning to his mate. He knew when Macca was laughing from joy and when he was laughing from cruel irony or sarcasm. This was not joy, but he couldn't pin point exactly what it was.

"Everyone is dying on me," Paul struggles with a strained smile, half-smile, his eyes locked on the sky above. "My parents are gone, Brian overdosed, you got fucking shot by some _freak -_ " - (the word came out as a sobbing growl) - " - Linda left me, now George is probably gonna die soon. I sometimes wonder if I'm going to be the - _only - one - left._ Just like when the band broke up, you know? One by one, you guys started leaving and in the end - _I was the only one left."_

As Paul was saying these things, John walked closer to him and placed comforting hands on his arm and shoulder. "Paul - "

"I sometimes wonder if I'm gonna die alone. I'll be alone, just like in that studio. _You have no idea - how quiet - and empty - that room was."_

John's grip on Paul tightened and he forcefully turned the man in his direction. "Stop! That's horrible! Even if you are the last of us, you will not be alone, Macca." There's a gentleness now, in his voice and his eyes. "I will be with you until you leave your body. It's alright."

Paul was trying to push himself away from the older man, but John kept a good hold onto him. "Get away! You're not real! You're just an illusion! Don't do this to me!"

"I am **_not_** an illusion!" John then huffed, his voice growing louder. "Why can't you believe that it's **_me?_** What can I do to make you believe me?"

As Paul was trying to protest again, John wrapped one arm around Paul's waist and the other grabbed a side of his head, pulling him in for a deep kiss. As John kissed him, Paul groaned into his mouth from the painful grip and pulled away just enough to say, "Agh!"

So John pulled his hand away from his face and placed it behind the younger man's head instead, kissing him some more. This time, Paul was not trying to fight back. Even just for the pretense of it all, for the sake of fantasy, he returned the kiss and they were so absorbed into each other that they do not even acknowledge the ocean waves hitting their legs. They continue to kiss passionately, the tastes very real, the textures of their tongues, until one powerful wave crashes into them and consuming them both. Their lips separate and they run up the hill to avoid getting hit again.

Once they were finally out of the water's reach, they sat down and panted. Nothing was said for the longest time, then finally Paul breathed out, "Sorry. I don't usually - lose it - like that."

"It's fine - " - (how could the departed be gasping for breath? Memories of suffocation?) - " - Anyone going through what you're going through would have the same thoughts."

Their breathing was beginning to level itself out, then Paul asked, "Why the kiss?"

John shrugged, along with a smirk and a snicker. "To calm you down. And shut you up."

Paul had to share his own smirk and snicker. "Yeah."

"Feel better?"

"A little. You're a good kisser."

"Thanks. You're alright."

Another snicker from Paul.

"Touching is good."

He remembered John saying those words before. "Yes, it is," he agreed and moved in to continue kissing him.


End file.
